Emotions Are For Conformists
by Buttery
Summary: Michael Linden and Eric Cartman are quite the peculiar pair. This fact is far from lost on Michael, who decides to organize this sudden strange deal through daily, secret journal entries.


So, first and foremost, I feel some petulantly nagging need to inform you that I am no author. If anything, I'm a poet, but that has no place here. So, forgive the fact that I start my story off with a mundane cliché. Or, like, better yet—_don't_. Grab a fucking plastic butter knife, hunt me down, and ram the damn thing into my eye socket until it shatters against my skull. There's seriously never an excuse for bowing to the conformity of such trite prosaism, and the fact that I've found myself succombing is a sin worthy of bloodshed.

Not that you'd do it, even with this grand window of opportunity practically being shoved right down your throats. Posers.

Anyway. Where this story begins, it wasn't any sort of a special day. Another bromidic Tuesday in fact, and it had started as uninterestingly as any other, just to keep down any hope I could muster that it would finally be the one that I hit the zenith and would be granted the graciousness of Hellfire. —In case you're too stupid to appreciate what I'm saying, I wake up every day hoping that I'll die somehow. But then again, who doesn't? Except for those bourgeoisie cheerleaders who practically shit Skittles and thrive on sugar-sweet glitter sparkles in place of oxygen. _Gag me with a fucking spoon._

I think I nearly broke my clock that morning, because I had the alarm volume up way higher than usual, and it wouldn't shut off for a while. And after I almost fell out of bed, and dragged this huge, retro as Hell piece of shit clock onto my face, I kind of gave up the idea of getting back to sleep. But at least it gave me hope that this splitting headache would become a concussion, signifying my brain was hemorrhaging right then and there in my skull. (Unfortunately, but obviously, that was not the case. Or I wouldn't be writing this, would I.)

Now, something that _no one_ can _truly_ appreciate is the irony I deal with while getting ready to face the Splenda-sweetened saccharine day every morning. There is a certain art form to it, in fact. (Not that I much expect you to put two and two together, though.)

You conformist Barbies who parade yourselves down the street like you're on sale to the highest bidder slather on your makeup, stuff toilet paper down your bras or your briefs, and adorn clothes that you think will please the masses... All this bullshit, to delude yourselves into considering the possibility that you might have some sense of value or self-worth.

Sure, some of you guys love to bleat that bullshit about how you do it for _yourselves_; yeah, all right, sweetheart. Whatever helps you sleep at night. Don't think no one notices the way you pull your bra down and push your tits up when you think everyone's attention is diverted somewhere else. They know it, bitch, because they do it, too.

But I can appreciate the sentiment of the statement, at least. Because I honestly do what I do for myself, and no one else. That's why, some days, I don't do _anything at all_. If some people see the ratty nest of bullshit my hair is straight out of bed, I could not care less. If they see the bags under my eyes from sleep deprivation? Goth. If they notice how pale my complexion is, and express concern that my sickly appearance gives the Twilight faggots a run for their money? Whatever. But, that day wasn't one of those days. Because while there has never been a time I can call back to where I liked to see my own reflection, that day, I was pretty sure Henrietta, Pete and Firkle would actually be concerned for once.

Which thus (_ugh_, what the _fuck_, Michael) began the struggle to get the bathroom before my bitch of a mother got to it. I don't know what it is she does in there that keeps her occupied for, like, nearly two hours every morning, but for _God's sake_. There has not been a single time I can recall where she's missed her schedule. I got lucky that morning, and locked the door behind myself just as I heard the bedroom door creak open. (It sounds like something straight out of a horror movie, actually, and it's pretty awesome, in its own regard.)

Although it's, like... really, _really_ lame, and again, is deserving of some horrible bodily affliction—maybe, I don't know, someone should adhere some poetic justice upon me, and take an eyeliner pencil and shove it into my jugular—my mom and I tend to pile all the makeup into a basket that gets shoved into the cabinet on the top shelf, and use whatever tickles our fancy when we pull it down. Yeah, we _share_ makeup.

But, she's really meticulous about organization, and she keeps the colors partitioned. I've never had to pull out a fucking pencil sharpener, so I guess I can't really bitch about the fact she uses my shit. ...Well, I mean, I _could_. But, like. What would be the point?

So, anyway; Tuesday was just riddled with this incessant need to disappoint me at every turn. The makeup basket came down pretty easily, but apparently my dad was not so aware of how Mother Dearest likes to keep everything, and so along with it came the electric razor. It didn't hit me. It didn't even graze me. An even bigger failure than my dad's first marriage. After staring at it with utmost disdain, I went on with my morning.

Foundation—its only real purpose was to spare me from being questioned by the counselor I saw every first Tuesday of every month to work out my class schedule (more like, I let him stalk my attendance and try to make me care about how many days I missed and in what classes, whatever)—was my first applied product. Simple, since unlike some morons, I didn't try to cover myself in the shit like it was supposed to be a second skin.

Eye liner was next, but I apparently _put it on wrong_. That is, according to some blonde bimbo who is _quite literally_ the head of the cheerleading squad. (Like, seriously. The Queen of Conformists was up in my business, _telling me how to do my makeup_. Yeah. R_iii_ght, because I want makeup tips from you, Sparkletits. I would rather choke on bleach than so much as _look_ at that literal embodiment of the word 'poser.')

Bitch cavalcades herself like she's worth looking at because the purple girl and the one with the hair so obnoxiously red she looks like a Crayola crayon flank her like her royal guards. _Don't pull your eyelid down like that. You clog the tear ducts and shit_. Do you think any of us give a rat's furry ass? The answer is no. No, we don't. And it's not like I don't go back and put it on over the stupid raccoon mask mess under my eyes anyway. It looks better when you do both.

I had the pencil in one hand, and I was in the middle of trying not to stab my eye out when someone decided to render my precautions unnecessary. They practically crashed the fucking door down with the heavy-handed knocking. I don't remember what choice words I'd picked to tell the asshole off, but I remember that I wrenched the door open and leaned out, fully intent on strangling the douche who just ruined my makeup. Then, Eric Cartman backed off with both hands up at his shoulders, like it would stave the wrath boiling behind my deadpan stare.

—I feel that I should stop here to explain a little. It would have ruined the pace of things if I'd mentioned this first. But, he was there that morning because he's my boyfriend. Yeah, I know what you're probably thinking. _What the fuck? Love is, inherently, not goth at all_. You're right; it's not. But the thing is, it's not love. I don't know if, even at this point, I'd call it like. It's more like a convenience, and the type of company I can't really tolerate from anyone else. Like, if Pete tried to hold my hand, or Henrietta was suddenly down for a make out session behind the burnt out shell of an abandoned gas station on the border between South and North Park, I think it'd be weird.

Maybe I'll get back to this later.

Anyway, I'm not gonna go writing out dialogue like I actually remember everything he said. And I don't even know how to properly relay his really stupid accent. What the Hell even is it, anyway? Who knows. —But the point here is, we talked (or I snapped at him and he whined in his defense) for maybe ten minutes before he pointed out that I now had this really _awesome_ streak of black down my fucking cheek, and I punched him. (Whined some more about that, like a little bitch too, but I expect it now.)

I didn't even have time to finish my other eye after wiping off my shit mistake. As soon as I cleaned up, he was at my elbow with all of this enthusiastic bullshit about ...God, I don't remember. Oh right, it was some stupid comic. Pete reads shitty comics too, and so sometimes I overhear enough to get a few names, but I can't put them in context, and I don't really care to bother. I just know Eric was excited about it, and he practically bowled me over trying to get me to hurry up. I almost decked him again, impatient motherfucker. What's the hurry? It's only _life_.

But my mom took advantage of the opened bathroom door, and saw Eric. In that instant, I knew I would not survive the day if I didn't forsake my makeup. The sour look on my mother's face meant just one thing: an interrogation. So, I got the hell out; fucking _abandon ship_, like a rat jumping off a brig. Eric was thoughtful enough to grab my earring for me when I dragged him out, because I don't think I would have had the will to trudge down the driveway without that much, at least.

Like, how much _Hell_ can one person be subjected to without buying a gun from that rickety shack-shop (I don't remember what Jimbo's place is called, but that'd be what I'm referencing here) and blowing his brains out right there at the counter? That would have been me, probably, if I'd had to listen to my mom ask carefully-worded questions about my relationship that morning. God.

I don't really remember if we talked about anything on the car ride to school. (Eric thought he was such hot shit, just getting his car like half a week before that Tuesday for his birthday. It wasn't from his mom exclusively, but from her and his half-brother. Yeah, him. That ginger, soulless kid who ate his parents in a bowl of chili and cried in front of Radiohead. Henrietta thinks he's pretty hardcore to still be living. I think he's just insane.) But I remember specifically thinking that he must have paid exclusive attention to my Zune the night he'd snagged it, because Bauhaus played over the radio. (Bela Lugosi's Dead, to be exact; obvious, but warranted.)

He seemed pretty goddamned chuffed when I turned it up; that smug look on his face is one I'm really used to seeing by now, but the times when he shows this vulnerability underneath it make it memorable. This was one of those times. Like, he wasn't expecting me to appreciate the effort he put in to burning a stupid CD for me. (He ended up giving it to me later. I haven't listened to it yet. I should probably do that.)

So, what's the significance of this shitty Tuesday anyway? —Good question. Let's go back to why I'm dating this sad sack first, since that's kind of important, too. Not deathly crucial, but nothing is ever all that important. Because one day, we're all going to wake up and realize that life is, in itself, fickle and fleeting. But most will only see the futility as they lay bleeding out somewhere in a back alley with a pen knife shoved into their intestines. (Okay, that was pretty awesome. Anyway.)

Okay. Like Eric's car, our relationship was pretty new at that point. We'd been, like, _officially_ dating for... I don't know, looking at the calendar (which is really fucking lame, by the way; it's something some hopeful kid does while they're waiting for Christmas, unaware that they might not even wake up to a Christmas tomorrow morning because Daddy and Mommy's fight escalated to a murder-suicide. _All I want for Christmas is my two folks back_.), it was probably like two weeks.

He'd just come flouncing over to me one day, and I would have ignored him if it weren't for his outfit. I mean, it wasn't the first time I'd seen him in something that could only be conformistly (fuck you, that is a word as far as I'm concerned, bite me) labeled 'feminine.' Dresses, skirts, whatever. But for once, he had actually coordinated it, you know? He wasn't wearing some gaudy dress that made him look like a walking disco ball, full of sequins and sparkles, or cut in all the wrong places. Or, worse yet—bullshit bright ass neon colors and animal prints. _Kill me_.

He wasn't dressed conservatively, not like I give a flying shit about that either way, but he wasn't really showing off too much, either. (I sound like I was checking him out. For the record, I wasn't. He was standing over me, and when you don't care to look up at the person you're talking to, and you're eye level with their fucking stomach, you notice things whether you want to or not. Get off my dick, pervert.)

The skirt—pretty sure it was red, and I don't remember the pattern on it but it had something—fell low enough to keep everything covered even from my angle, but it left space for the imagination. And he had on some really baggy black sweater that kept falling off of one shoulder, revealing the thin strap of a tank top underneath it. Pink. (I know that because I like that sweater on him, and that's how he always wears it.)

Anyway, he got right up in my space, and I decided to humor him, because his shoes caught my interest. Thick, clunky stiletto heels; black, wrapped with metal ornaments that happened to border on totally goth without playing on the typical skulls and death. He asked if I'd go with him to some poetry slam. I don't really remember _why_ he said he wanted _me specifically_ to go with him, but apparently it was dire, and I don't generally turn down poetry night. Even if it means going with some asshole (which, in this case...is exactly what it entailed, obviously).

Special note here that I said asshole, by the way. In my mind, Eric has never been, and will never be, just another conformist. At the time, it wasn't anything at all like adoration or whatever (because, remember, I still don't know what to call the crap I _do_ feel towards him). He wasn't _special_. I didn't hate him less than I hated everyone else. He just wasn't classified the same way as the other posers. That's just how he was. _Is_. **Different**.

The whole poetry deal was pretty not-lame. The people reading their poetry up on stage were halfway decent. There was even a lull that I got up there. Apparently, Eric actually paid attention to the piece I read, because even _today_, he still mentions it. Just in bits and pieces, some of the really stupid lines I used in it (I've improved a lot within this timeframe). But the point is, he does it. I've noticed that his favorite thing to do is try to involve himself in my interests. Usually, he sucks at it. Points for effort, or whatever, though.

So, that obviously went well enough that when he asked me to go again later, there wasn't any skepticism in my mind when I said 'sure.' And it went on like that for, like, a month. That's when Henrietta started teasing me about going to _Poetry Date Night With the Girlfriend_. Pete picked up on it, and though Firkle usually keeps his mouth shut when it comes to me, he had this stupid, knowing smile that he always flashed when one of the other two got onto it. He tried to hide it behind the bang-fringe he likes to shake over his eyes, so he doesn't have to look at all the assholes who populated the wasteland of high school. But, like. I still saw it.

Eric overheard them talking about that once. Figured he'd get offended or something. Surprising probably everyone, he got all nervous and fidgety instead. Because apparently he'd been meaning to make it into a _real_ date that night. He only mentioned that after we were halfway to the café, but duh. When he did, the seemingly incongruous, anxious response finally made some damn sense.

At that point, I dealt with a huge debate with myself that spanned four days. Dating was, and is, something that is practically expected of everyone in society. So, I had spent the last seventeen years defiantly uninterested in _anyone_. Fuck conforming to expectations. And since, like, the whole city of South Park was willing to jump the gun on gay rights, my options for unconventionality regarding dating norms were disintegrated into a harrowingly empty array. But there were very, _very_ few people who understood the transgender spectrum.

So, when I _thought_ about it, that left me brand new options, and Eric was—is—one of them. He doesn't _just_ crossdress. I found out around the fourth time we went out (he asked me out officially on the fifteenth time, for the record; I don't remember it for sappy reasons so much as I do because of the poem I read that night) that he has periods where he just feels more like a woman than a guy.

Personally, I don't get it, but I judge pronouns by how he dresses every day, and he seems fine with that. —I'm getting off the point here. Conclusion is, after I spent a while at this really violent bloody mental war with myself (it was _literally_ bloody; I ended up cutting myself pretty bad helping my mom with dinner one of those nights because I was too busy trying to relay shit over the phone to Pete. I bled all over the egg salad. It was pretty hardcore), I decided it was worth the shot. I didn't have to put forth any effort, and I'd have someone outside of my usual circle actually interested in the very few things I find a fleeting interest in myself. It was convenient.

So, we officially started dating. (And the little douche 'borrowed' my Zune the first time that night, didn't even ask). In the time span between then and the shit-Tuesday I've been going on about, nothing too much changed. We'd go to the poetry slam and listen to everyone rattle off their shit. I'd read something. We'd go back to his place (never mine, because my parents sleep early, and _God_, does my mom fucking _bitch_ when she gets woken up). I'd walk back to my place from there. End scene.

Back to where we were now that you're all filled in.

**That Tuesday**  
><strong>Scene:<strong> Behind the school  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Me and Eric, other people who are not important

... Okay, no.

I was going to actually do this, because what happened is probably not what you anticipate at all, but you know what? Fuck it. I'm not caving to expectations of narrative arc. That's all you get. If you want to read a play, go to the fucking library.

The whole day was unimportant up to this point after school. I waited for Eric in my usual place by the dumpsters behind the school. Henrietta was out for the day entirely (to ritualistically summon something dark and terrible, she said, if I remember correctly; but this isn't about her anyway), Pete had split after jacking some prescription painkillers from the nurse's office for my killer fucking migraine, and Firkle... he went to go stalk Damien for a while, or something. I think. Pretty sure that's why he left, anyway; he still does that, much to Damien's dismay. It's pretty funny, though I don't know why he bothers. Damien's not interesting. He's sort of a poser douche, actually.

(God, I took a second to read back over this, and if this were an actual published book, I'd probably shove the dominant hand of the editor who approved it through a _paper shredder_. This is really fucking bad. Remind me to stick to poetry next time. Ugh.)

When Eric finally showed up, he was in his stupid red jacket and jeans. (So it was a 'guy' day, I guessed.) He had this look on his face like he knew something no one else in the world did. And there I was, feeling like motherfucking Death incarnate, waiting for the Percocet to kick in to kill the throbbing in my skull, half of my makeup still botched despite my efforts with the emergency supplies Henrietta had in her purse.

He walked right past me, up the stairs where I usually sit. Told me to stand up. A lot of the time, he likes to comment on how I walk with a cane some days, so I figured he wanted to throw up some stupid cripple joke, but I stood up anyway. Looking back on it, it was pretty fucking clever. See, he's by no means short, but I'm older, and also ridiculously tall. He planted himself on a stair so that, when we both stood, it put us eye to eye.

I still remember that stupid smarmy look he had on his face when I realized it, even though he hadn't made that particular expression since then. That look like he just _knew_, the little prick, that he caught me by surprise. But there was something shy under all that coy bullshit. ...This sounds so fucking gross. I need to wrap this up, then go downstairs and fall on a butcher knife.

Remember how I said this particular Tuesday had a way of finding every possible turn to disappoint my expectations? I expected the day to go as mundanely and uneventfully as usual. But no. I suppose I deserved to be disappointed, because it's stupid to _have_ expectations. It just goes to show.

As I was saying, that shitty moment behind the school pretty much opened this passageway in our relationship. Because he kissed me. And it was...pretty nice.

I wouldn't say it made me feel any less like letting the paring knife slip and maybe conveniently slash open an artery in my wrist or something that night. Maybe it actually made the temptation all the higher. But apparently I'm no better than Raven with the purple bitch. Something about listening to him talk to my dad while my mom and I made dinner apparently kept the knife in the vegetables and my blood circulating in my veins instead of splattered on the cutting board.

This is the most emotion I can spew into one session without literally frying my brain.

Whatever.


End file.
